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WELL-MEANT ADVICE.

of triumph) and the few other trifling details necessary to be observed.

Naturally I sought aid and comfort not from the enemy, but from friends. I solicited hints of all kinds, for I had truly need of them.

You will be surprised to learn that these hints were of the most contradictory character. What was lauded by one was condemned by another. A point that by dint of hard study I had learned from A., I was advised by B. to drop at once if I ever hoped for success.

Modulations of voice which I had practiced carefully by the suggestion of a well known person, universally conceded to be a delightful elocutionist, were denounced afterward as defective and the result of "faulty instruction !"

My gestures were deemed too startling by one, too inexpressive by another, and quite the thing by a third.

My arms were pulled and pinched, my shoulders squeezed, my back thrown in, my chest thrown out, causing me an amount of pain which those who inflicted it would have shielded me from with the ferocity of tigers, had the suffering come from any other source.

But as far as testing the quality and strength of my voice was concerned, by practicing the speeches viva voce, that was utterly impracticable. How could I disturb the quiet inmates of Mrs. Biggin's highly respectable mansion (reference given and required), by imploring Clifford to leave me, or by peremptorily bidding Master Walter to "do it" nor leave the act to me? The thing was not to be thought of, and so my home rehearsals were always given in a whisper. Low as it was, still it was overheard, and the impression went forth at Biggin's that I was mad. Soon this impression was confirmed, and then all at Biggin's looked aghast.

I was going on the stage-oh, this was more than mad

THE EVENTFUL NIGHT.

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ness-it was impropriety: it was touching pitch and running great risk of being defiled, it was atrocious, it was unheard of; and there was weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth, particularly when all were assembled at Biggin's festive board.

But time flew, and the eventful night arrived. I was dressed too soon-ready, but alas! not eager for the fray.

It had been raining all day, and Faust kept declaring, in his funny way of thinking French and speaking English, that he didn't believe there would be four cats (quatre chats) in the house.

I didn't either, and ardently hoped that even those four would be engaged in the pursuit of other mice than Eveleen.

Suddenly Faust arrived, almost simultaneously with a huge basket of flowers, and announced that cats were crowding in in large numbers, quite regardless of expense, in the shape of ruined hats and bonnets, and all unmindful of the inclement weather.

I almost wished the rain had drowned, as it must have drenched them.

I really felt very ill.

Mother said it was the odor of the flowers, but I knew it wasn't. I left the dressing-room and went up stairs, for the play had begun and I knew I must soon go on.

They asked me if I was nervous, and I said no, which was true. I was not nervous; I was, as it were, dead to all feeling. My arms were leaden weights, my hands two dumb-bells, cut in a queer human fashion, with four fingers and a thumb.

I felt like a lamb being led to the sacrifice, and yet not like, for a lamb has a happy ignorance of whither he goeth, and I had a vivid, painful consciousness of where I was going.

I was going on the stage, and that almost immediately too-oh dear, dear!

I had discarded the use of rouge when dressing, knowing that generally in excitement I have more need of white than red, and just now I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass.

I was pale to a degree that can only be equalled, not by the blue-veined vivacity of marble, not by the light transparency of biscuit, but by the dull soggen pallor of plaster of Paris.

But hark! My cue! The cue I know so well—a kind but peremptory movement from the prompter, a gasp, a momentary closing of the eyes, and a leap.

Not a leap in the dark, but a leap into the light-into the gaslight, the streaming, gleaming, all-revealing gaslight. It was but five steps from the wing on to the stage, but those five steps brought me into another worldchanged me at once, as Fairy Goodgift does Clown and Harlequin with one stroke of the magic wand, from a femme du mond into an actress.

I was nervous now-my chest heaved, my breath came thick and fast-for all of Adam's children were condensed into one man and that man was at Wallack's theatre. All humanity had but one great eye, and that eye was glaring terribly at me!

I haven't the remotest idea how it all went off. I only remember that my problematical idea of sticking was on several occasions about to become a positive reality, but happily did not; that I overacted; that I underacted; that I did everything I should not, and nothing that I should.

However, it was over. I had made my debut.

The worst was yet to come--the next morning's criticisms.

Lord Byron hated the friends, who, at news of a disaster, always reminded him that they had "told him so."

WHAT THE CRITICS SAID.

139

I read with dismay the corroboration of my own unfavorable opinions of myself.

Still, the criticisms, like the hints, were very contradictory. Eveleen was pronounced superlatively good, comparatively indifferent, and positively bad. I was received as a bright accession to the galaxy of stars by one critic; as not good enough for the stock by another. Figaro, witty, pungent Figaro, said my acting was too emotional, and he was right. It was all emotional.

Every emotion of my heart and body, particularly every painful one, was awakened, and no doubt improperly betrayed. I felt like crying in the merry scenes and laughing hysterically in the pathetic ones.

Another critic said the beggar's dress was unbecoming to a great degree, and he was right. I wanted Faust to get me for that very scene a moire antique, at a hundred dollars the dress pattern, but he, dull man, would not Cit.

Figaro said that I did not exhibit the "gross ignorance-'

Gross ignorance! "Why, good gracious, thought I in bewilderment, how does this tally with the remark made only a couple of years ago by Somebody, who, if he is not somebody himself (opinions again divided), is undoubtedly the Nephew of an Uncle who was Somebody (opinions not divided), to the effect that the same person who did not exhibit 'gross ignorance' was unquestionably and decidedly an esprit fort? And that in Europe, too, in Paris, too, where esprit forts are not lacking! Ah, Figaro, Figaro, tell me who your Suzanne is, and I'll bid her flirt outrageously both with Cherubino and the Count, just to pay you off for that, you naughty, saucy barber!"

En somme, I was pretty thoroughly bewildered by the controversy I have mentioned which arose among the critics, and which at length waxed so warm that the

140

NOTABLE FIRST NIGHTS.

original cause of it-my offending self-was well nigh forgotten.

The interesting nature of first appearances, generally, is well known. The most genial gossiper of our day is fond of referring to this ever-fascinating source of pleasant memories, telling us how "the gossips, as they grow old, renew their youth as they tell the story of the first nights they have seen. A first appearance in Europe is an experiment. Even if it be Jenny Lind or Rachel, the beginning is necessarily without previous reputation, except the warm rumor of the rehearsal and of private admiration. But when Jenny Lind came to us, it was as the recognized queen of song; and when the spectral Camille glided from the side-scene in 'les Horaces,' and that low, weird, wonderful voice smote the ear and heart of the listener, we knew that Rachel was, without a rival, the greatest living actress. So, also, with Alboni and Ole Bull. Their fame was made for them when they came. As we write the names, what scenes arise, so freshly remembered, so utterly passed! The very buildings are gone, except Castle Garden, where Jenny Lind first sang, and which is wholly changed. It was in the Metropolitan Theatre that Rachel appeared. It was in Tripler Hall that Alboni sang; and in the old Park Theatre, on a memorable Saturday evening, Ole Bull strode out, with a leopard-like swing, upon the stage, his coat buttoned across his magnificent breast, his fair, frank face smooth and romantic as a boy's, as he bent over his violin during the introduction by the orchestra, and fondly listened, to be sure that it was as sensitively responsive as he required it to be. And, if the buildings are gone, where are the magicians? Rachel is dead. Jenny Lind's voice has flown. And Alboni and Ole Bull-where are they? *

Yet these were all first appearances, that were suggestive of each other. If Rachel came, there were those